


(I'm yours) till the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away

by completist



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, DCU Big Bang 2018, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Heartbeats, M/M, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Spirit Animals, SuperBat, because Clark is a pro at identifying Bruce's heartbeat, rlly this is kinda self-serving bc there's no sentinel/guide fic with these two, vague porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 22:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16648703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: In a world of heightened senses and enhanced strength where Sentinels and Guides roam the earth with their own unique subculture, Clark has always considered himself to be normal—not a Sentinel, not a Guide; just Clark Kent, son of Martha and Jonathan Kent, aspiring journalist—and in a town like Smallville, who values their Sentinels and Guides like they value their field and crops, Clark finds himself surrounded by friends and peers who one by one presents and leaves for the Tower — the place for the elite, the place for the promising ones.Until Clark turned out to be more than that and the world is introduced to Superman.





	1. Doxa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DCU Bang 2018 and a prompt fill for the [DCEU Kinkmeme](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=252371#cmt252371)
> 
> _During the knock down, drag out brawl, Bruce and Clark feel this intense pull suddenly overwhelm them. It cuts through the rage and they can't bring themselves to fight each other any more. Turns out Clark is the most powerful Sentinel on the planet and Bruce is his Guide._
> 
>    
> Thanks so much to [knoxoursavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior) for beta-reading this fic. Love lots, Lauren~
> 
> And here is [LullabyDance's](https://lullaby-dance.tumblr.com/) [awesome art](https://lullaby-dance.tumblr.com/post/180202433711/cover-art-for-queenqueers-dcubang-fic-im) for this fic! 
> 
> Lots and lots of love to the mod/s of the DCU Bang 2018 for making this event happen!!!

**Doxa**

_ancient_ **_Greek_ ** _δόξα; from verb δοκεῖν dokein_

:

common belief or popular opinion.

  
  


_“Stay down! If I wanted it, you’d be dead already.”_

 

_Superman says, his voice booms clear despite the strong, constant drops of rain and Batman—_

 

_—Batman smirks at him._

 

  
  
**I.**  


Clark looks up, squinting against the golden rays of the sun, and breathes.

“Clark, come on,” Pete calls out, looking over his shoulder. Clark raises a hand at him and walks faster. Pete stands waiting for him under the shade of a huge oak tree in the middle of their farm, where they mostly spend the days either studying or writing for their school paper, his bag slung on one shoulder and his eyes squinting against the bright sun.

The two dropped their bags to the ground and Clark observes how Pete seems to climb the tree quicker than he did last time. He watches the calm look on his friend’s face, whose arms rise to hold onto a branch and whose legs swing across to another one, then hold himself up. A strong breeze hits them and the tree gently sways along but Pete does not worry; the wood beneath him holds firm. He always seems so sure about what to do next — but then of course, what else should anyone expect of a Sentinel?

“Aren’t you going to climb?” Pete asks from almost twenty feet up.

“No, thanks,” Clark replies, turning his gaze away. He can almost hear the ‘your loss,’ in the way that — he was sure — Pete shrugs. Clark stretches his limbs, feeling the pull of muscles beneath his skin, basking in the sun before moving to sit on the ground. With his eyes closed, he relaxes, letting his shoulders loosen up as the wind softly hits his cheeks.

Pete is going to be a Sentinel. Clark is sure of it. After all, his friend did come from an ideal family.

Sentinel Ross was able to find a Guide immediately after he was sent to the Tower, a more than ideal situation that has been the subject of morning chats and lunch talks among the people of Smallville even after they were married. Sentinel Ross’ and his Guide’s contribution to the military isn’t overlooked either, and often regarded to be his peak as a sentinel. Just that, plus a perfect combination of genes, and everyone is sure that there will be more sentinels in the Ross family in this current generation.

Which, of course, in a town like Smallville, people just can’t stop crowing over the fact that there are likely candidates for a Sentinel or Guide walking among them.

He hears a faint rustle above but Clark keeps his eyes close, knowing his friend is gearing to speak.

“You know, Clark, sometimes I worry.”

At that, Clark snaps his eyes open. It is not unusual to worry on how one will present. Sentinels are loud and vicious and bordering on rabid due to their senses being assaulted all at once when they present. Their spirit guide is still young which is why it is ideal for a familiar Guide to be present when a Sentinel presents to radiate calmness and help them control their senses.

But Pete has his mom and dad. And to them, the Tower is just one ride away. His father’s connections already ensure that Pete’s possible needs would be immediately attended to. He doesn’t dare to look up to his friend. Instead, he says, “If it’s about what your spirit guide would be, I’ve read from plenty of accounts that say there’s a high probability it will be the same as your father’s. It’s a family thing.”

“It’s not about that.”

_Oh,_ Clark thought. He swallows a lump that’s suddenly lodged in his throat then asks, “About what, then?”

“About what could happen if I don’t meet my guide,” Pete says, his voice lowering with each word he utters.

_That’s new,_ Clark thought. He turns to his friend, a small smile gracing his lips. “I’m sure you’ll immediately find one. Isn’t the Tower supposed to be good at matching a Sentinel with their Guide?”

“Yes, they are. But— I don’t know, Clark.” He sighs again and Clark keeps his eyes open. “I do hope you find yours though.”

Chuckling, it was Clark’s turn to shrug. “I’m normal.”

Pete barks a laugh at that. “No, you’re not. In fact, if this whole town is sure I will be a Sentinel — I, however—”

He hears a thud beside him and Clark closes his eyes again. A hand claps his back, “— am damn sure you would be the most special of us.”

  
The next morning finds Clark anxiously rolling a pen in his hand, trying with all his might to return his focus to the teacher talking about _x_ and _y_ and _sum of two squares_ in front. Two of his classmates have presented the previous night and are no longer around town. And in a town like Smallville, with people who are as invested in their Sentinels and Guides as they are in their crops, news certainly travels fast.

Pete Ross proved to be a Sentinel. As the whole town has long known. As his family has long expected. As Clark has long anticipated.

But Clark still didn’t manage to say goodbye.  


 

 

_“Breathe it in,” Batman says, the thud of his boots slowly getting weaker to Superman’s ears as his lungs constrict within his chest. His gasps for breath getting louder and louder to his own hearing. His vision blurring as it gets harder and harder to breathe._

 

_“That’s fear.”_

  
  
  


**II.**

 

Clark doesn’t know what to expect.

He stares at the oak tree, at the branches where Pete used to climb and lounge, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the faint rustle of movements as Pete balances himself then the stillness that follows. The ground at his feet is cracked, too dry; the air around him humid, causing the irritating sweat rolling down his back. He stares at the oak tree, at the way its shadows shroud a portion of the ground, at the leaves that have fallen and dried, some already blown away by the breeze and sometimes, Clark wonders how the tree has lived for so long.

Soft hands meet the harsh and rough plane of the tree trunk, and with pursed lips, Clark begins to climb. Up. And up. And up. The branch beneath his hands held, the leaves rustling at the sudden movements of his feet. Up. And up. Farther than where Pete used to sit. Farther up to see greater distance than the vast fields of Smallville.

Up. And up. Until he sees the silhouette of the Metropolis Tower and still—

—Clark doesn’t know what to expect.

Earlier, he saw how Lana presented. They were having lunch together at the cafeteria, mulling over the topics they would like to cover for their newspaper. The usual noise still not enough to fill the looming silence around them.

Clark was the first one to notice. He read some accounts of how Guides don’t present in such a reactive way as Sentinels do. Where Sentinels are uneasy, Guides are calm and comfortable.

“Lana, are you sure you’re alright?”

Without looking up to him, she replied, “I haven’t told anyone.”

Nodding, Clark resumed fiddling with his pen. “Okay. Which of these topics would you like to cover then?”

Normally, Lana would look over at Clark’s notes first before choosing. This time, however, she decided without even giving it a single look and Clark couldn’t help but wonder, if she was avoiding her spirit guide like nobody's supposed to do.

 

A couple of months later, the school paper was published and Lana never did manage to write the article on the topic she chose.

  
  
  


 

_“_ _You’re not brave,” Batman taunted, his fists clenching at his sides. The rain beating heavily on his cape, the drops shining on his armor as the cold white of the lenses fixes its cold stare at Superman._

 

_Slow movements. His lungs hurting and seeming to fold into itself at the assault, pinpricks of pain shooting all over with each breath. His attempted attack blocked._

 

_“Men are brave.”_

 

_There’s a pull inside him. Hurting more than his lungs, stinging more than his eyes. There’s a pull inside him. Stronger than the blow to his gut, a ton more powerful than the sudden grip of gravity on his feet as he falls._

 

_There’s a pull inside him. A pull far more dominant and vicious than the man before him._

  
  
  


**III.**

 

**_“You’re as much a child of earth now as you are of Krypton.”_ **

But Clark never presented. At the time when most of his childhood friends — _the children of earth_ — presented, his own powers manifested themselves.

He thought perhaps, it would be the same for him. Heightened senses, special abilities. But Pete’s words rung through his mind.

_“If this whole town is sure I will be a Sentinel — I, however, am damn sure you would be the most special of us.”_

**_“You can embody the best of both worlds.”_ **

Everything blurs.

Lana and her spirit guide close to Clark’s hand at the time.

History. Of Kansas. Of a once great civilization not so different from Earth’s, yet far more advanced — now lost in the cosmos. Of heritage. Of what could have been, and what could no longer be.

Of billions of lives. Of a heart beating too fast. A single rhythm, out of all the others. Its hollow tune echoing, a cacophony of sounds he can’t turn away from.

Of the stories forever lost in the stars. Of the past mingling with the present. Of time blurring the future.

And as confusion addles his mind, Clark hears the familiar voice of his mom. _Focus on my voice._ Her smile. _Pretend it’s an island, out in the ocean._ The gentle caress of her hands and the comfort of her presence. _Can you see it?_

She may not be a Guide, but she’s all Clark could ever dare to ask for.

**_“People hate what they don’t understand.”_ **

_I see it._

  
  


 

_Pain. Suffocating, pounding pain._

 

_Superman closes his eyes at the heavy weight on his chest. The feel of gravity pulling his suddenly aching body down, shots of white hot pain burning at the back of his head. He clenches his teeth as his back hits solid ground again and the weight on his chest lifts._

 

_Whimpering, he tries to raise himself up before a strong kick to his back sends him flying across the room. Cold metal. On his face. Hitting his gut. Gripping his neck. He holds them off. There’s no finesse to the punches he’s receiving — this isn’t Batman._ Bruce _. He needs to talk with Bruce._

 

_His temples hit hard concrete and his vision flashes white. He squeezes his eyes closed as an armored fist meets his jaw. Then down, on dusty ground. Again. His ears ringing, his head throbbing. He blinks once. Curls his fingers into fists. Twice. Feels his body twitching at the assault and yet the pain has suddenly began to recede._

 

_That’s when he starts to sense it._

 

  
  
  
**IV.**

 

“You need to get out of here before dark,” the man helpfully supplies. Clark keeps his gaze at him, noticing the lottery ticket in his hand, the smell of grease and oil, the crusted dirt lodging beneath his fingernails. “Unless you want to run into him.”

“Don’t listen to that nonsense,” the woman down the corridor speaks up and Clark feels doubt creep into him, reacting to the sure posture and the wariness emanating from the two people with him. “The only people who’s scared of him are people who got reason to be.”

A light tingle of unwavering belief washes over him, and Clark allows his gaze to linger for another second. A Guide. He hasn’t felt the presence of one for a long time. Despite the city being rampant especially at night, it is nice to note that the Gotham City Tower does not let their Guides go about their city unbonded.

Another beat, then he asks, “Scared of who?”

“There’s a new kind of mean in him.” the man replies, dragging his words out. He doesn’t radiate fear though. Worry, perhaps, but there’s also that certain lightness of acceptance in his tone. He speaks as though he is stating facts that are completely normal in the dark alleys of Gotham. Giving Clark a mildly dubious look before returning to his ticket, he continues, “He’s angry. And he’s hunting.”

The man holds up the ticket he’s been scratching during their encounter. And _there._ The symbol of the Bat. Protector of Gotham. Her own Dark Knight.

And abruptly, Clark hears that heartbeat from long ago. Like a strange rhythm lost in a sea of white noise he has grown accustomed to in the world that can be too big for him.

_Then make it small._

It maintains a controlled rhythm. Calm and resolute. A strong beat drowning out the others, breaking through the white noise that Clark has been hearing since childhood.

And Clark. _Oh, Clark could listen to it all day._

  
  
  


  _Cold, hard concrete on his back. Again. Centuries old. Ruined, yet being broken down further with every strike. That strange smell of oldness that gives a feeling of being lost in time, of weariness. The smell of dust and metal and grease and gun powder and—_

 

There. _The same scent. From a strange night, long ago._

 

_“Bruce,” Clark mutters, his voice weak._

 

  
  
  
**V.**

 

Clinking glasses. Heavy footsteps, and the light clicking of a stiletto on polished floors. The feather-light rustle of glistening gowns.

Clark tilts his head as he sees Wayne fast approaching. His movements heavy with intent proving that Clark has to be more persistent than he initially thought.

“Mr. Wayne,” he calls out, extending his hand in introduction, “Clark Kent, _Daily Planet_.”

Clark keeps his eyes on the man, taking the chance to further look at him in such a close proximity yet Wayne remains unfocused, his gaze lingering on some other person Clark doesn’t bother to look at. He lets the comment on books slide past and allows himself to focus solely on Wayne. His huge physique made flattering and the least bit intimidating by his tailored suit, sharp edges carefully complemented by his movements. The tense line of his shoulders. The flash of calculation in his hazel eyes so fast it immediately returns to its glazed look.

“What’s your position on the bat vigilante in Gotham?” Clark inquires and Wayne—

—Wayne smirks at him.

  
  
  


_“Bruce,” Clark tries once more._

 

_Then he hears it again. That same sound. The hollow tune from long ago. He stops moving and allows himself to be held by the tightness of the hand on his shoulder, feels the thrum of blood pumping through the radial and ulnar veins, then up to the brachial vein. And further through, the pumping of a heart. Blood flowing through its chambers. Faint. Like it was supposed to be hidden._

 

_He didn’t hear it moments ago, but he can clearly hear it now._

 

_“You,” he hears Bruce say before letting him go. Clark maintains his gaze at him, feeling like a gear in his inner machinations has stopped then began working properly. His head feels lighter and his whole body seems to be regaining strength._

 

_Oddly enough, memories flash before his mind._

 

“It feels like you’re being reset,” _Pete said, the first day he returned after being paired with a Guide._ “The dials turn the right way — the way you never think they could before and you suddenly function like a renewed man.”

 

_He remains standing, looking at the armor where Bruce’s heart would be. Beating rapidly. Erratic. His own ears prickling at the incessant thundering. Slowly, he looks up, seeing Bruce lips set in a thin line, the eye bared by the broken cowl suspiciously peering at him._

 

_“How is this possible?”_

  
  
  


 

**_“It’s okay. I’m a friend of your son.”_ **

**_“I figured. The cape.”_ **

Clark allows a small smile to grace his lips as he listens to the exchange. He heard the whole battle as he makes his way towards Luthor, feeling the same surge of strength as Bruce. Feeling the same rush of adrenaline through his veins. He closes his eyes, savoring the sudden tranquility between them.

He speeds through the night sky and to the chamber where Luthor stands, the sharp _ping!_ of the timer he holds in his hand as sharp as a bang of a bomb to Clark’s ears.

“‘Late, late!’ says the White Rabbit,” Luthor babbles, **_forty seconds to animation,_ ** “Right, wabbit?”

Luthor turns to him, hands pushing aside his cloak to settle on his waist, “Out of tricks, out of time...” he throws the timer behind him, “And one Bat head short.”

Clark’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he takes a deep breath, **_thirty seconds to animation_ ** **,** his patience wearing thin as the man keeps on babbling. _That’ll be the cook! Excuse me. Gotham roast, well done._ He crosses his arms and releases the breath he’s been holding, allowing the tension to slip away as satisfaction surges from Bruce and his voice rolls off of the phone, no less menacing than in person.

“Hello! Break the bad news,” Luthor prompted.

“I’d rather do the breaking in person.”

**_Twenty seconds to animation._ **

“You’ve lost.”

“I don’t know how to lose.”

“You’ll learn.”

A mocking laughter. “ _I’ll learn_. You see, I don’t hate the sinner. I hate the sin.”

**_Ten seconds to animation._ **

“I gave the bat a fighting chance but he’s obviously not strong enough to do it!”

Clark’s jaw clenches at the remark and he lets his trembling fists fall to his side.

**_Three,_ **

Luthor smirks at him.

**_Two,_ **

“So if man can’t kill god, the _devil_ will.”

**_One._ **

 

 

  
  
  
**VI.**

 

_“Just a little higher, Clark,” Pa Kent urges, arms stretched out before him. “Go on. You can do it.”_

The beast — _Doomsday_ , as Luthor named it, _his_ Doomsday— roars, gripping him by his neck to throw him back down to earth.

_The sun shines brightly across their little yard, their family truck sitting idly for two days now. There’s nothing left to do but wait for the crops to grow. Clark sees his Ma setting the food on the table he and Pa carried outside earlier, her hair falling beautifully down her shoulders._

_Clark looks down to his Pa, his hands gripping the branch beneath him so hard his knuckles turn white. “A little higher, son.”_

Superman looks down to his planet, clenching his jaw as he sees the nuclear weapon following them. He flies higher, punches harder.

And Doomsday does too.

_A strong gust of wind blows against the tree, shaking its leaves and branches, and Clark nearly falls. Pa is right under him, with his arms outstretched and ready. “It’s alright, Clark. You’re alright._

_I’m right here if you fall.”_

He holds Doomsday, restraining him as the nuke moves closer, _closer._ He closes his eyes as the memory plays in his mind with Bruce’s strong heartbeat ringing in his ears, emotions flowing freely between them, responding to one another; some leaving a bitter taste, some resounding his own, making it difficult to discern which are his and which are Bruce’s. So in sync that Clark can almost feel the tight grip Bruce has on the console of the batwing. As tight as his grip on the beast before him.

A flash of blinding white light. Doomsday thrashing against his grip. Then darkness.

_Clark slowly stands on a thicker branch where there are lesser leaves, squinting against the sunlight and feeling the wind softly touching his cheeks. The red cape his Ma tied around his neck earlier billows and he hears her laugh and her gentle reminder to be careful somewhere to his right, accompanied by his father’s light chuckles below._

_“Well done, son.” He looks down to his Pa who is grinning proudly up at him, one of his hands remain outstretched to Clark. “Now, come back to us.”_

  
  
  


**VII.**

They’re not allies, not exactly.

But if Clark feels more like himself when Bruce lands beside him, assuring him of his mother’s safety, Clark allows himself to think that it’s close.

Following Bruce is a woman wearing armor, carrying a sword and shield. Clark’s senses begin to adjust to her presence while she speaks, “This thing, this creature. It seems to feed on energy.”

“This thing is from another world.” Clark spares Bruce a glance before continuing, “My world.”

The apprehension he’s been anticipating to come from Bruce is barely there. Instead Bruce is carefully silent amidst their connection, his lips set into a thin line as he locks the weapon in his hand.

“Meaning kryptonite weapons could kill it. I only have one round left,” Bruce says, hefting his weapon more comfortably in his hand, his eyes staring straight ahead. Clark averted his. “The spear, it’s pure Kryptonite. If the skin is pierced, the spear could kill it.”

The woman turns to them. “I’ve killed things from other worlds before.”

Then she surges forward, sword and shield at the ready. Her movements strong and calculated as she gives strikes stronger than the ones before.

“Is she with you?”

Hazel eyes stare back at him, a hint of incredulousness twinkling in them. “I thought she was with you.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

The weapon feels heavy in his hands.

 

And it’s hot. Too hot. The pain inside him scorching, his lungs feel too dry and the incessant beating of his heart begins to waver. Doomsday’s growls of rage and protest are too loud, so loud that he can’t hear anything else aside from it. Clark feels his consciousness faltering for a moment, only to surge with intense focus as his eyes snap open.

 

Fiery red eyes stare blankly at him and Clark shouts in pain as the sharp pick protruding out of Doomsday pierces his chest, narrowly missing his heart.

 

His hands feel clammy against the steel shaft of the spear, flashes of a memory not quite his own barging into the forefront of his mind as he attempts to push the spear forward and through the beast.

 

_Blood, a battered body lying unconscious — dead — on the cold ground, yellow paint, piercing laughter and a shout of pain._

 

A blaze of green and red accompanied by howls of agony erupts, sudden and sharp and bright and deafening. Clark reels from the pain, feeling his heart slowing down with his own decreasing awareness, like lights dying down. And it’s ironic because most people say that it ends with a flash of blinding white light, that it ends with a bang. But there’s nothing that Clark can see, no light, the absence of it unsettling, the darkness suffocating. It doesn’t end with a bang. It is quiet, the kind that begs to be broken but it just _can’t_ be broken. There’s no light, no bang in death but its feeling is familiar even if it couldn’t have possibly be known before in life.

 

It doesn’t end with a flash of blinding white light, nor does it end with a bang. Instead, it ends with a whisper of a name.


	2. Logos

**Logos**

_ancient_ **_Greek_ ** _λογότυπα_

:

“word,” “reason,” or “plan”

:

in **Greek** philosophy and theology: the divine reason implicit in the cosmos, ordering it and giving it form and meaning.

  


 

Sirens. Wind. The sound of a light bulb shattering.

A once lighted street now immersed in darkness.

Music. Glass hitting concrete wall. Rats squeaking in the trash bins.

That constant drop of water from a leaking pipe. Traffic.

Footsteps from the streets below. Quick back and forth pacing. A door discreetly opening, allowing light and sounds to pass through for a moment before closing sharply, as though that sheer force would render anyone not to come through.

From his position above, Batman catalogs the stimulants as usual. Common. Disregarding information that doesn’t matter at the moment. Information that probably will _not_ matter. Gotham is breathing in its usual manner. Calm. Quietly chaotic. Last rasping breaths hidden somewhere yet to be identified. Until—

Until one sound cuts through—

A sharp cry.

“Scans of the perimeter show a hostile two blocks down to your right, Master Bruce. I’ll have the batwing ready.”

Then, a quick shot of grapple, the hiss of rope shooting and melding into the dark skies before piercing the building across. The apartment is two blocks away from his current position, the leap doesn’t take over a minute.

Seconds ago, there was struggling. Broken glass, scratches on the floor, tables and paper in disarray, a woman lying dead on the pool of her own blood; there has to be.

_Too late._

He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. _Another life I failed to save._

Batman drops to his knees beside the victim, his sharp gaze following the signs of assault: from the bashed in head, to the blood on the floor, to the triple-locked door, to the child playing on the crib in the other room. Spared. His mother’s death hidden from his sight.

Sometimes it’s the small mercies that make the situation… quite unexpected.

Stepping around the body, he surveys the kitchen and sees a broken window. Shards messing up the floor and a wet newspaper. _Old trick._ He looks over his shoulder at the corpse, bloody boot prints — a man’s, judging by the girth, and the amount of blood suggests heaviness in the step; probably a man with tall and heavy physique — leading away from the body. None on the window sill. The door’s still locked.

He clenches his fists. _He’s still here._

The closet beside him bursts open and Batman catches a glimpse of the culprit. _Twin Uzis, silenced._ He throws a batarang and the weapon drops to the floor. Standing now between the assailant and the child, Batman glares at the man — he’s wearing a white mask with small holes lining the space between the eyes from the forehead down to the chin. The bags under his eyes are apparent, dark and stark against the mask, his pupils blown wide.

“Whatever you’re reaching for,” Batman begins, his own hands moving discreetly under the cape. “Don’t.”

“Freak.”

He hears the man laugh beneath the mask before throwing a grenade into the room behind him. Batman kicks the explosive mid-air before going for the child, shielding her from the explosion.

Carefully, he looks down to check the child, then over his shoulder at the assailant. _Gone. But not without trying to kill the child._

Batman puts the child back down into her crib, picturing the landscape surrounding the apartment in his mind. _Alleyway must be at least twenty feet wide._ He lunges through the window where the masked man came from and sees him about to jump. _Thinks he can make it._

Rushing forward, he throws a lasso, bounding the man around his neck, and holds him four floors up — prepared to drop at any moment into the dumpster below. _He can’t._

“Scary, isn’t it?” Batman begins, holding the lasso in one hand as the other anticipates an attack. “To feel your life slipping away under another man’s hand. Do you think that’s how she felt?

 _Helpless?_ ”

The man resists, trying to breathe, his struggles only causing the lasso to tighten. In one quick pull, the masked man scrambles before him, clutching at the rope tightly bound around his neck and face. “Your life could end here now and nobody would notice. No one would even know.

Tell me, punk, what’s your life _worth_?”

“Please—please don’t kill me,” the masked man says, eyes watering with tears either from difficulty breathing or his current position.

Batman smirks. “There are things far worse than death.” _He would know that._  

He holds the man up by the collar before throwing him down to the safety of the rooftop, “You’re no street punk trying his hand at burglary. Petty thieves don’t carry military-grade weapons. Who sent you?”

“I can’t tell you,” the man answers, shaking his head, his hands and feet scrambling backwards.

“Who bought the hit?” Batman asks, advancing towards the man in full height. “And why?”

“No-no, no, no—” The man keeps shaking his head, long hair falling down to frame his masked face— “You don’t know what he’d do.”

“Believe me,” Batman stops a couple of feet in front of the now shivering man, “I am _incredibly_ interested to know.”

Blinking, the masked man begins moving to stand, only to stop mid-action. Eyes wide and stricken. A single laser spot steadily aimed at his head, the color stark against the white of his mask and the dawning realization in his eyes.

“Get down!” Batman shouts, diving to the side for cover.

The next moment, a strong smell of fried flesh surrounds the area. The smell is pungent, rancid, the kind that stays at the back of your throat. _Explosive rounds, semi-armor-piercing-high-explosive incendiary,_ yet the thug isn’t even wearing armor that would render usage of that kind of ammunition unless—

 

_Unless it was made for him._

 

Batman slowly stands to survey the area, his eyes scanning the roofs along the perimeter before jumping into the batwing hovering low to the right of the building they’re in. Images of the dead woman surface on the forefront of his mind as he alerts the police. For a moment, he waits, until he sees them get to the child. Another orphan in a city that could never quite get it right for their likes.

He leaves the scene when he sees Gordon, accepting the fact that there’s nothing else he can do here.

 

_Nothing yet._

 

 

 

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred greets, his steps loud against the silence of the cave. “Toast, black coffee, the _Daily Planet_ and the _Gotham Gazette_ , sir.”

Bruce remains in his seat, facing the banks of monitors, his hands toying with something.

“We haven’t heard from her.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“There was nothing out there last night,” says Bruce, hands curling around the weapon in his hand. “Nothing.”

“If I may, sir. I would hardly say it was nothing given this behaviour of yours.” He hears Alfred laying the tray on a table to his right, opts to ignore some other murmured remark on proper sleep, then the movements cease. “That gun, is it—?”

Shifting his chair to the right, he replies, “The one he used on them. That night.” Bruce allows his free hand to roam aimlessly on the keyboard, pulling up documents he has already reviewed well enough the previous the night. “I took the liberty of acquiring it from the GCPD evidence depository last month.”

He lets Alfred draw his own conclusions, though he keeps talking despite knowing that saying things out loud wouldn’t exactly make the words relevant at the moment, “There was nothing more they could learn from it.” Yet his mind is already conjuring up information he has obtained from examining the gun himself. Information that doesn’t matter at the moment. Information that probably will _not_ matter at any moment in the future. And yet—

“He fired two rounds that night. 117-grain hollow-points worth twenty-five cents per piece from any gun store. Was that all their lives were worth, Alfred?” he asks, looking at Alfred over his shoulder, placing the gun on the table before him. “Twenty-five cents of ammunition from a random gun store?”

“If I may be so bold, sir. Is this what you hoped to achieve when you stole your parents’ murder weapon? Sleepless nights credited to an increased capacity for morbid introspection?” Alfred’s gaze remains steady, calloused hands gripping the edge of the work table behind him. “Please, do continue.”

Bruce shakes his head once. “He filled the clip full, but left four rounds that night. One in the breach. Afraid to finish what he started.”

“Oh.” Alfred mutters, “And you’re not?”

Bruce turns sharply to him, teeth gritting. “We both know it would’ve been finished a month ago.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred begins, pushing himself away from the table to step closer to Bruce, glancing at the murder weapon, at the banks of monitors, then at Bruce. As if he’s proving a point merely with his gaze, “I, for one, am thankful that he left those rounds in the clip. The good your parents did when they were living lives on. In _you._ I, and perhaps others if you would care to listen, do believe that the world is a better place with you in it.”

Standing, Bruce clicks on a few keys and the monitors shut down before looking sideways at Alfred. “Not without him in it.”

Walking off, Bruce stops by the breakfast tray Alfred brought. He puts the newspapers in his arms, grabbing the cup of coffee and a slice of toast. He obligingly bites at the toast with Alfred still around before striding towards the showers.

“Isn’t that why you’re doing this?” Alfred asks after him, moving to pick up the breakfast tray which still contains a lot more than he would prefer. “To honor the time he and your parents were here?”

Stopping in his tracks, Bruce takes a sip of the coffee in his hand before replying, “There was a woman last night. Her attacker was carrying a silenced military-grade weapon. No one would have heard, and it would have been faster if he used the gun. Yet he chose to kill her with his bare hands. She wasn’t even worth a bullet to him.”

“And this matters to you why?”

“It’s been over twenty years, Alfred,” Bruce turns around, his jaw clenching, “and all I’ve done is respond. _Retaliate_. Flush them out of their holes until they dig another one for me to sniff out. How can I make a difference in this world when the only person who seems capable of doing it is gone and the reason why has my name written all over it.”

Alfred stares at him, his expression bland, lips pursed into a thin line. “Then I suggest you start working on Luthor’s files again.”

Bruce remains rooted to his spot, not for the first time finding it hard to look Alfred in the eyes. He doesn’t quite know what to say, at some point he thinks he should apologize for snapping, or thank Alfred for bringing him breakfast, thank him for checking up on him again and knowing exactly where to look.

He thinks maybe he should apologize for everything, but apologizing for everything seems lazy. Especially when apologizing should encompass all of his mistakes, recognizing them one by one so he wouldn’t repeat them all over again. He thinks maybe he should also appreciate Alfred for understanding him, for staying, for believing.

He will. But maybe not in that particular order.

“I will.”

He’ll get there. Wherever _there_ is.

 

 

**I.**

_"Bruce,” a soft voice called out to him, and when he looks up, he sees blue eyes staring intently at him._

 

_He’s supposed to free himself from the tyranny of here and now, supposed to emancipate himself and the world, he’s supposed to take things under the aspect of eternity—what could be universally true and not a distraction of the human physicality, because this couldn’t be true. There was never another one who fit quite right. What other people romanticize, he ignores. What is of importance to others is a liability to him._

 

_A sharp tug erupts in his mind and he shifts his gaze to the phoenix rising from the ashes somewhere to their right before soaring high, followed by two pairs of feet trudging softly into the clearing and then breaking into a run. Up. Up. Up. Attempting to reach where the phoenix flies._

 

_Then everything shifts. He’s down on his knees, his grip loose on the weapon in his hand, his mind a jumbled mess. Thoughts — not his, no, his, wait, no — and a pain in his chest, so sharp and sudden and searing yet he only shouts one name._

 

_“Clark!”_

  
  


 

Bruce slowly brings the cup of coffee up to his lips and takes a sip. “And how are things going, Mr. White? How are your star reporters?”

Perry White fidgets in his seat. If moving a little to the left and the right could constitute as fidgeting in this case. The subject is a bit touchy, Bruce knows, which is why he made sure to add a little lilt to his voice to ease it — make it sound like he doesn’t know a thing, like he doesn’t care. The Guide in him perks up at the other’s distress and he stomps it down.

He has lived long enough without these urges, the basics of his biology, and he can live without it for more.

“Was well on his way of getting a Pulitzer, if I may say so. Lane is doing okay though.”

Pursing his lips, Bruce puts the cup down. “I’m sorry. ‘Was’?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne,” White replies, his gaze straying down to the folder sitting between them. He’s probably worrying that this will go negatively for the _Daily Planet,_ and really, if the acquisition of a news company were incredibly vital to the string of businesses Wayne Enterprises prides itself on, his worry would have been justified. “Don’t worry, what we lost wouldn’t entirely affect our performance.”

“I’m confident on that aspect, Mr. White,” Bruce assures. “I just—” he shrugs— “would like to know more of my employees’ state. You see, it’s one of the principles of Wayne Enterprises.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Wayne.” White stands up, grinning at the implication. “I’ll make sure to update you, if there’s anything at all.”

“Thank you, Mr. White. Can I ask for a little favor though?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Can we postpone the announcement for this in, say, a month?” Bruce suggests, his mind already running through the schedule, the pacing of how these metahumans could be gathered and how long they still have. If ever all of them will cooperate well.

Which is highly unlikely.

“You see, Mr. White, I have certain things to attend to.”

 

 

“It’s because he’s dead, isn’t it?” the thug calls out, stopping Batman before he makes the jump.

And it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t have stopped him because he’s done, he found out what he needs to know.

“Superman. He’s dead. That’s why they’re coming for us.”

And Batman never looks down when he jumps but this time, he does.

_He’s not dead._

  
  
  


**II.**

_Bruce hears it, feels it. And it’s so disconcerting that he staggers for a moment and loses his grip on the gun in his hand._

 

_Looking up, he sees Superman — Clark — pushing the spear into the abomination before them, the cackle of energy around is loud and strong and surrounding._

 

_The phoenix frantically flies around the scene, burning and ethereal, and seemingly dying. Once, twice, no, it keeps looking at him as if to check. A long howl pierces the night and—_

 

_He hears the scream, — there’s a burning warehouse before him — the phantom pain in his chest — Alfred calmly telling him the direction, “They’re with him,” the tension tight and coiling in his voice — the thoughts running wild and so, so messy, his own and his colliding with one another, crashing, burning, slowing only to gain momentum. His vision blacks out as he drops to his knees and the spear pierces the heart of—_

 

_He doesn’t know whose heart, he—_

 

_Wakes up._

 

Diana sends Alfred a copy of Plato’s _Symposium_. Although he’s pretty sure that Alfred has read it multiple times, has owned different copies multiple times, he still holds this one like it’s his most dear.

 

It’s in the way his hand touches the book, the way his fingers splay over a page before straying to the edge to turn to the next. It’s in the way he cradles its spine, soft and delicate and _careful._

 

It’s in the way he leaves it around for Bruce to see. As his subtle way of sharing it with him. In a way that he knows Bruce would prefer than—in a way that he could _bear_ other than _—_ to talk about it out loud.

 

That night, Bruce dreams he’s searching for his other half. The one to make him whole, the one to complement the puzzle piece left in him. He is searching, but he doesn’t know what to look for.

 

He searches and looks around, feeling the overwhelming loss bloom profoundly within. He feels it in his chest, gnawing at his insides until it crawls into his mind and it’s so heavy and so _frustrating_.

 

And this time, at the silence of early morning, he’s not sure what woke him up.

  


 

 

**III.**

_“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves… and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment...”_

**_―_ ** [ **_Plato_**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/879.Plato) **_,_ ** [ **_The Symposium_**](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1488719)

 

 

 

“I’m asking for your help,” Bruce begins, hyper-aware of all the eyes regarding him. Definitely more than he could take should things go… dire, regardless of their skills, or his own. But a village this small tends to keep to themselves; Bruce recognizes that the power of a crowd can be as strong as any other trained opponent and he’s not even counting the meta-human in the room. The only exit is the one he came through, unless he breaks the frosted windows — but even he wouldn’t appreciate that given the state of the whole village. He flexes his toes to get rid of the biting cold from walking ankle-deep in the snow and subtly takes a deep breath.

Calmly, he continues, keeping his eyes trained on their leader seated in front of him, “I believe there is a stranger who comes to this village from the sea.” He doesn’t just _believe,_ he _knows,_ and the way the leader clenches his jaw is too much of a giveaway. _He_ knows too _._ “He comes in the winter when the people are hungry and brings fish.”

Murmurs erupt among the crowd, further solidifying his words, and Bruce takes note of the tall man standing on the leader’s far right. Long hair framing his bearded face, much of his physique hidden under layers upon layers of clothing, his mouth curling up in distaste as he regards Bruce with a glare.

“He comes on the king tide. That was last night.”

The leader speaks and Bruce keeps his face blank except for a small frown even though he perfectly understands the words.

“Icebergs in the harbor,” the tall man translates for him and Bruce shifts his gaze to him. “Four months since the last ship got through.”

“Well, this stranger doesn’t come by ship.” Bruce keeps his eyes on him, his stare hardened. “There are enemies coming, from far away. I need warriors, I’m building an alliance to defend us.”

The man strides towards him and Bruce still continues despite the constant glower on the man’s features, “Look, I’ll give $25, 000 to talk to this man right now. Outside.”

He begins talking in the native language of the villagers and they all laugh at his remark, Bruce lets a smile on. _Of course._

Then he sees it.

The crowd to his left parts to give way for an old man coughing up the wrong way in his laughter and Bruce’s eyes dart from the drawings on the wall to the tall man glowering at him. His mind speeds through the images of Luthor’s notes. Three boxes. Always three. This one depicted to be apart from each other, and guarded too. Unlike in the notes where they’re usually depicted together, with writings all around in Luthor’s spidery, cursive penmanship, “Tell me what those boxes are and I’ll make it thirty.”

“You should get out.”

“Could you at least point me to Atlantis?”

Bruce feels those strong hands yank him and slam him to the wall; he barely winces at the sudden shot of pain and _smirks,_ “Arthur Curry.” He levels the other’s glare with satisfaction. “Protector of the seven seas. Also known as the _Aquaman_.”

And he might get punched for this, it’s a fifty-fifty chance, but even he is a slave to his own curiosity, and something Alfred would argue as _pettiness,_ “I hear you can talk to fish.”

That night, he dreams he is split in half, and at first, it doesn’t matter. Life is… what life could be. And he is more than capable of rolling with it, despite the constant aggravations.

That night, he dreams of finding his other half. He finds them but he didn’t know what to expect. He finds them, but he turns them away because they do not look like him.

That night, he dreams his heart stops beating.

 

 

**IV.**

_There were days when, to him, Wayne Manor was as breathtaking at night as it was in the morning._

 

_He paces the length of his room, only to sit with his back on the door; as if doing so would keep things out—or rather, keep things within. The house is silent, empty. No longer are there footsteps coming home before the dead of the night. No calloused hands smoothing the hair from his forehead, compensating for the missed ritual before bedtime simply because Gotham was especially difficult that night—but still altogether beautiful that they both understand._

 

_No longer are there gentle hands coaxing him from sleep and into the breakfast table in the morning, patient with a sweet smile always ready for him. No longer are there caring hands smoothing the collar of his uniform. No longer are there soft lips kissing his forehead goodbye to school._

 

_Now there are days that the Wayne Manor is as empty and hollow as the mausoleum he tried to escape from seeing two days ago._

 

 _A burst of flame erupts in the sky and a large bird—a phoenix—swoops through his closed window._ A spirit, _Bruce thinks, he has read all about them._

 

_The phoenix sits patiently at his bedside table, as if waiting for him to crawl into bed so they could tuck him in._

 

Bruce wakes up oddly satisfied with his sleep.

 

 

 

Bruce pauses for a second to take the whole place in.

The shelves bursting with books. Monitors. Speakers. Several chairs, two of which are well-worn; the other looking like it has seen better days than the other judging by the tear and wear in the faux leather cover. Twenty-two working computer monitors, one designated for entertainment, the other twenty-one for numerous readings and analysis. Tables filled with notes and papers held down by several 200g metal weights typically used in labs for scale calibration. Toolboxes, two closed, one locked. He grazes a finger on the graffiti painting the walls, noticing the faint smell and then the spray paint thrown under the table holding a computer. The bicycle propped against a clothing rack and the stacked crates containing parts and scraps. Then, the suit standing in the middle back of the room.

He recognizes the color from his dream, but every other detail of the suit is different. This one seems like an earlier design. A tester to see if it can withstand high levels of heat and abrasion. But can clearly work all the same.

Before taking another step into the room, he shuts down the breaker and navigates the area through memory. He sits down in the chair near the monitor that displayed a group of girls singing and dancing, crosses his legs and settles his palms on his knees.

Willing his breathing to even out, Bruce begins checking his body. He takes note of the pain in his upper back and arm where he held the parademon tightly as they soared through Gotham. Phantom pains shooting up his spine. The tingling sensation of the burnt skin on his shoulders and a knife wedged between the fourth and fifth rib on his left.

_Bruce! Listen to me now!_

He takes note of the paper folded and kept in his back pocket, the batarang hidden inside his suit jacket and thinks that he can almost feel its sharp edges and the blood trickling down where it cut through. Yet its familiar weight offers comfort as he waits in the dark.

_It’s Lois! Lois Lane!_

Ears open even to the tiniest ticks and clinks in the dark, he takes note of the emotions coursing through him and lets them fall away. His chest constricting as he resists the urge to breathe faster. _In. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Out._ They leave a bitter taste in his mouth and even in this quiet moment, he doesn’t allow himself to name them. Naming means acknowledging. Acknowledging means he could no longer ignore their presence. And recognizing their presence means he would have to act on them. Possibly in a way that Alfred would not approve of. And at this rate, Diana would not approve of. He allows his shoulders to relax, as if physically sagging would let the strain flow down from him and seep into the ground.

_Am I too soon? I’m too soon!_

He taps into that tiny ore of calmness in him and allows it to take over. Allows himself to take over the dials that were suddenly set right in him. Allows himself to delight in front of this tiny control room inside him that was suddenly lit so bright only to dim too soon. He sighs as his mind conjures images from his memories. Others fresh, others from so long ago he feels they should be in black in white instead of being such a colorful contrast against a night not too long ago.

_You’re right about him! You’ve always been right about him!_

Red, like blood pooling against the dust and dirt on the ground. The flash of sunlight on steel and a playfully placed diaphragm of a stethoscope over his heart. Blue, deep like the ocean and the trough of its waves suddenly shallow and unmoving. The sound of laughter around the dining table, a chessboard sitting on its other end.

_Fear him! Fear him! Find us, Bruce!_

The clanking of chains slowly pulls him out of his little meditation exercise. Taking another deep breath, Bruce straightens then relaxes his posture, aiming to look casual despite the memory of the man he’s about to meet, screaming and telling him things, flashes at the forefront of his mind.

_You have to find us!_

Bruce opens his eyes, blinking rapidly in anticipation of the lamp on top of him turning on, making sure that he will quickly catch Allen’s attention. Then the sound of the breaker opening, the flow of electricity, sizzling, sparks flying before the whole place lights up, monitors coming to life simultaneously and a lively song in — 넌 한 줌의 모래 같아 _(gimme little bit of this)_ _Korean, yes_ —  began playing.

“Barry Allen, Bruce Wayne.”

He catalogues Allen’s appearance: the dropped bag on his side, head tilting to the side, red and black checkered jacket—the colors similar to the others hanging on the rack in their right, his eyes narrowing only to stare a little wide-eyed at him as if in realization, his slowly rising hand.

“You said that as if that explains why there’s a total stranger in my place, sitting in the dark—” Bruce moves to stand, deliberately making sure his hands are free at his sides and sees Allen’s gaze following his movements before moving to stand in front of him— “in my second favorite chair.”

He avoids the inquiring gaze in favor of reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a folded paper. He purposefully unfolds the paper in front of Allen before holding it to him. “Tell me about this.”

Allen doesn’t even spare the paper a glance before snatching it from his hand, eyes still suspicious. Bruce waits long enough for him to stare at the photo then back to him, then back to the photo before walking towards the displayed suit. His mind racing through the apparent physical comparisons between this young man and the one in his dream. The most striking of all is the look in his eyes, this one seems innocent, while the one from his dream seems tired, like he has seen more than he prefers.

“This is uh—” Allen begins, and Bruce finds himself appreciating the apparent masking of shock, the way his eyebrows quickly shoot up only to droop down just as fast— “a person who looks exactly like me but is definitely not me.”

Pursing his lips, Bruce nods and turns his back to him. He walks towards the suit, smiling a little as Allen continues to babble behind him.

“Very attractive Jewish boy. Somebody who, I don’t know, stole your pocket watch or something.”

“I know you have abilities,” Bruce admits, looking at Allen over his shoulder. “I just don’t know what they are.” A blatant lie, he’s seen the footage from Luthor’s file enough times to formulate a hypothesis on what Allen could basically do. But then, it’d be better if he sees it in person, even more so if Allen chose to explain it himself.

Allen frowns a bit, then raises his hand to count off, “My special skills includes the viola, web design, fluent in sign language. _Gorilla_ sign language.”

Bruce shifts his attention back to the suit, hiding his smirk with his words, “Silica-based quartz sand fabric. Abrasion resistant. Heat resistant.”

“Yeah,” Allen agrees and _there_ Bruce hears the uneasiness, “I do competitive ice dancing.”

“It’s what they use on the space shuttle to prevent it from burning up on reentry.”

He nods in appreciation as Allen stammers, “I do _very_ competitive ice dancing.” Bruce levels him a bland gaze before turning away from him. “Whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me.”

Internally, Bruce huffs a disbelieving breath and reaches for the batarang in his pocket, throwing with as much force as he can to send it forward _fast._

Electric blue sparks light up around Allen, _electricity,_ no, it’s more _light._ It’s over as quickly as it appears. Bruce blinks, letting out a deep breath, and stares back at Allen’s incredulous gaze moving from the batarang then to him.

“You’re the Batman?”

This time, Bruce lets a small smile grace his lips. “So you’re fast.”

Allen gingerly holds the sharp object in his hands. “That feels like an oversimplification.”

This time, Bruce lets out a disbelieving breath. He strides forward, the anticipation building up in him. “I’m putting together a team. People with special abilities—” Allen begins jumping on his feet at that, and Bruce feels the elation coming off of him. _A fellow Guide—_ “You see, I believe there’s an attack coming.”

“Stop right there. I’m in!”

And Bruce does stop. His mind reeling from a previous experience with a certain metahuman from Luthor’s file. This time, he’s the one who stares almost incredulously. “You are?”

Allen stammers, “Yeah. I need friends.” Then as if catching himself, Allen shifts his gaze to the empty space on Bruce’s right and Bruce prepares himself for another babbled explanation, “People are difficult. They require a lot of focus.”

And Bruce couldn’t agree more.

“They uh- they have like a rhythm?” Barry spares him a skeptical glance to which Bruce nods, raising his eyebrows for him to continue. “Something I haven’t quite been able to—” He gestures wildly with his hands and Bruce just waits for him to continue— “Like brunch!”

 _Brunch._ Bruce tests the word in his mind and files it away for later. “Like, what is brunch?” Barry asks, and Bruce is pretty sure it’s rhetorical. The current gushing of passion pouring out of the man as he explains though, makes Bruce feel his dilemma. He files away the observation for later. Creating a mental note to assess how much of an empath Barry is before they go into any form of battle or engage in any form of combat. “You wait in line for an hour for what is, essentially, lunch. I don’t know.” Barry’s shoulders sag a little. And Bruce is hit with a small pang of disappointment coming off of him, and it feels awfully like having that bitter taste back in his mouth again.

“People are a little slow.”

Smirking, Bruce replies, “I’ll try to keep up.”

The flash of hope that begins emanating off of Barry feels warm. Warmth so intruding it fills him up, making his senses tingle and sending his mind reeling so hard that blue and red dissociates from the dirt and grime of the ground back to the sky.

A fleeting thought.

  


 

 

“Have you read it?” Diana asks before they enter the cave once more. Their little talk on what they could possibly face putting things on a wider perspective.

“Read what?”

“Plato’s _Symposium_. I like to think he had a grasp on things, although not that much.”

“I skimmed through it,” Bruce replies, attempting nonchalance.

Diana smiles. “If you have, then you’ll find that some things are just… meant to happen. And to be.”

  


 

Bruce stares at the mess the Nightcrawler is now. And there’s only one thought that keeps crossing his mind.

They’re not strong enough.

It’s not just his senses, or his instincts. Even to those who aren’t as keen as him, Bruce knows that they’ll be able to tell that they’re _not_ strong enough. They are not _effective_ enough.

Sure, they can hold up. But the question is _how long_ and _at what cost?_ It’s too much, the compromise is too daring, the jump too high and too far, the chances always changing.

One taunt and one of them snaps, one scene not falling in their favor and one of them takes a step back, one quick turn of events and one of them takes a second to act.

They’re being held back.

Bruce brings them down to the cave, all the time too hyper-aware of how _many_ people there are in the elevator with him. And not just _people,_ these ones are more than capable of bringing the whole place down.

Their emotions are too pungent; Bruce can smell the anxiety and fear brewing, can feel the rumble of excess energy being contained. Barry is practically a mess or rolling and coiling of mixed emotions — his excitement being the most prominent. Standing in the farthest back though, Curry seems more composed than any of them, his turmoil controlled and better hidden while Stone is stands like an immovable force to his right.

Diana is as still as he statue she fondly and carefully takes care of beside him, her gaze trained ahead. Unclenching the fists he has hidden in his pockets, Bruce breathes, feeling the littlest of movements beneath his feet as the elevator goes down. He feels the more apparent vibrations and attributes it to either Barry’s jittering, or Stone’s machinations.

Then Barry is running past him, exclaiming, “Wow. It’s like a cave...”

“...Like a batcave.”

“Barry!” Bruce calls out, his gaze trained to Stone — observing the way he moves.

“My father called it a change engine. The British found it in World War I; they studied it but they couldn’t even date it,” Stone begins, his movements smooth despite the apparent changes in his body, and almost silent too. “It was shelved until the night Superman died. Then she lit up like Christmas.”

Clenching his jaw, Bruce recalls the event with near perfect clarity. The box described on the report regarding Luthor is achingly similar to what they have; there’s no question that it’s the same thing.

He stops himself from clutching at the sudden jolt of pain in his chest. It’s not his, he knows. And it doesn’t make sense why he can still feel phantom pains in his body, pain that couldn’t even be correlated to any of his recent injuries.

It doesn’t make any sense; they barely touched. They barely did anything to form a bond. It doesn’t make sense, because when the other is gone, everything is supposed to stop, broken.

Broken isn’t a new concept to him, yet nothing makes sense.

“A mother box destroys as it creates. It’s a cycle of life. But a million times faster.”

That, somehow, makes sense.

 

 

 

His mind races through what he read in relation to Kryptonians and humans of Earth. It isn’t much, but there’s enough information for him to piece things together.

The chances are too small, he’s aware of that. But he’ll cling to any possibility no matter how irrational it is.

“No.”

“Diana—”

“—Bruce, no. You have no idea what kind of power you are dealing with.”

“Even if there’s a fraction of a chance?”

“That what? That we raise a monster like Luthor did?”

A sudden flash of anger. “No,” Bruce replies, fully aware of the sharp turn his voice has taken. “We have technology the world has never seen. We don’t even know if he’s—”

Diana heaves a sigh, her gaze trying to turn hard but can’t quite reach it. As if the urge to share the pain is stronger than the cold harsh truth of her next words. “Bruce, Superman— _Clark_ is dead.”

“He’s not.” He takes a step forward, a sly attempt to recover from the vulnerability that slipped past him.

Risking a glance to the others, Bruce returns his attention to Diana. “We don’t have time to regroup. We barely made out of that tunnel unscathed. We barely made out of it _alive_ . You know we are being held back. You fought with soldiers before, Diana, and I’m sure you can gauge just how _much_ we can stand against this kind of threat. Is it risk? Yes. But it’s necessary.”

“Why? Because of your guilt?” Diana asks, her voice rising. “Bruce, I was there. You didn’t kill Superman. That much I know.”

Then why are his prints all over it?

“He’s not dead. That much I know.”

He chooses to ignore the fast beating of his heart and the swoop of a familiar bird in the periphery of his sight.

 

 

“Alright,” a booming voice begins behind Bruce, making his fingers pause at their task of putting a gauntlet on. “Spill.”

Pursing his lips, Bruce takes a momentary reprieve at not having to face Arthur yet. He takes his time putting the armor on piece by piece: the chest plate, the braces at his back—he hides the wince at jostling his upper arm by casually rolling a shoulder and moving his neck left to right.

When there’s nothing else to put on his upper body, he stalks towards the bottle of whiskey to his far right, directly in Arthur’s line of sight.

He glances at the Atlantean, wondering if he is aware of the apparent power stance he’s exhibiting. He takes note of the tense jaw, the piercing gaze, the lips set into a thin line.

“Drink?” Bruce asks, offering a glass full of whiskey, filling the cup up to the brim, remembering Arthur’s little exhibit on drinking when they first met.

It takes a moment, and Bruce ticks the numbers off in his head before Arthur moves to get the drink from his hand.

The power stance lowers at nine seconds, the clenched jaw relaxes at twelve, the lips open to sigh at sixteen, and his feet begin moving towards Bruce at twenty-one.

Arthur downs the whole drink before speaking, “I’m skeptical, but I can see your point. Isn’t there any other way?” The glass slams beside the bottle as Arthur grabs that one instead, trudging towards the couch at the other side of the room, facing a huge monitor on the other wall. “Come on, you’re clearly smart. You can’t just tell us—you can’t just tell _me_ —that this is the only way. What can make you even say that?”

“What can make you say that it’s _not_ the only way?”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” Arthur retorts. “Not right now.”

Bruce feels the gaze weighing on him. Or maybe it is weighing him down. Measuring him. Sizing him up. And it should make him feel uncomfortable, what with his current state of existing in that plane between Batman and Bruce Wayne. His physical appearance a mere ironic representation of an otherwise juxtaposed metaphor. It should make him uncomfortable, how eerily familiar that piercing gaze is. How calculating. Only to look resigned later on.

“I don’t know what happened between you and him,” Arthur begins. And Bruce didn’t realize the man would be willing to keep a conversation going, especially a one-sided one. He files it away for later examination, focusing instead on what he is saying. Focusing on how his voice changed its tone, the timbre considerably dropping. Like one would when reminiscing.

“But I’ve seen him before, and frankly, I’m not interested in what happened between the two of you. He was lost, trying mighty hard out there, looking for something. I didn’t realize it was _someone_ until—” he shrugs, and Bruce finishes the rest of his own drink in one go— “Until, well, when I found out about this Sentinel-Guide thing you terrans seem to have. Apparently Kryptonians too. Then he was dead.”

Bruce tilts his head to the side. “Atlanteans don’t have that, or a similar social construct?”

Another incredulous gaze settles on him; it seems that he will be getting plenty of those today and the following days. “Of course out of everything I just said, that’s the one that would stick to you. And no, we don’t. Ours is different.”

Then Arthur stands, drinking directly from the bottle before stepping closer to Bruce. A raised finger jabs at the air between them and Bruce straightens, his right hand closing tightly on the empty glass in his grip.

“Listen well. Whatever happens in that Kryptonian ship, I hope you’re ready. And I hope you _really_ know what you’re doing and not just fumbling blindly and being good at hiding it because you don’t just fly too close to the sun without expecting yourself to get burned.”

And then he’s out of the room, taking the half-empty bottle of whiskey with him, and isn’t that such a nice thought.

 

 

**V.**

That night, he dreams of finding his other half. They’re walking down the corridors of a familiar home that does not seem to resemble the one with the bone-deep silence and hollowed feel, smiling as their family greets them and as the huge oak double doors open to a lush lawn. The phoenix is flying freely above as the fox stands guard at the open doors.

 

That night, he dreams of finding his other half, but unlike before he doesn’t turn them away because they are different. He stays, and they do too as the sun shines brightly down at them.

 

That night, he dreams of finding his other half, and he wakes up clutching at his heart, seeing flashes of a chest cracked open whenever he closes his eyes.


	3. Episteme

**Episteme**

_is a philosophical term derived from the Ancient Greek word ἐπιστήμη epistēmē; verb ἐπίστασθαι_

:

to know, to understand, or to be acquainted with.  

  
  


Clark dreams he found his other half.

They are in some world, the sun gleaming down on them as they walk through a corn field hand in hand. A house painted in red and white sits somewhere to their left with a red truck parked in front of it. And the happiness blooming and flourishing in his chest feels like liquid sunlight injected directly to his veins. His senses are calm, serene. More focused than it has ever been. The phoenix circles them from above, and the fox stalks around their perimeter, watching closely, fondly.

Clark dreams he found his other half, and it feels like all the mysteries of the universe no longer matter, for he’s with them. And they make everything else in the background blur to nothing. What matters is he has found them.

Clark dreams he found his other half. The one to make him whole. The one that complements him, the one who shines the light to fill the gnawing emptiness within.

Clark dreams he found his other half, and he wakes up screaming in anguish when they’re ripped apart by reality.

 

 

* * *

 

The four of them stare at him.

The woman looks familiar, but he can’t quite put a finger on where he has seen her before. The one to her left has a different biology, and he’s _talking,_ the beating of his heart loud in his ear, the tight set of his jaw betrays the nonchalance his body is trying to convey.

The one to her left looks young… and jittery, like he’s vibrating with energy that will burst any minute. For a moment, he smiles, like he’s genuinely glad about… something. He can’t quite tell yet. Then his eyes go wide.

A whirring sound, and they’re all clamoring before him. Seemingly trying to calm one another down, as if not to spook him. He stares at the half-human, half-machine trying to stop himself from attacking— no, trying to stop the _machine_ from attacking.

Tilting his head, he tries to ignore their shouts, the fast beating of their hearts, and the sound of their lungs filling with air. The world is loud. Suffocating. Irritating. The machine aims a weapon at him. Fires. And he dodges by tilting his upper body. It was nothing. Nothing. It didn’t even itch. He turns his gaze back to them, his hands turning to fists as his eyes heat up—

“Kal-El, no!”

 

_Kal-El._

 

For a moment, the laser hits its target before the half-man, half-machine— a _cyborg,_ dodges. Then they’re all attacking him.

The woman throws a lasso at him and he catches it in his arms, pulling. Closer, _closer._ His mind suddenly rears, focusing on something, that _one sound_ he can’t quite place, incessant and strong. He hears a flutter of wings, then a howl—

“Kal-El,” the woman began,

 

_Listen to my voice._

 

“The last son of Krypton. Remember who you are.”

 

 **_The last son of Krypton._ ** _Pretend it’s an island, out in the ocean._

 

He blinks, trying to see through the fog that suddenly clogs his mind, urging it to clear. Urging himself to see. The fluttering of wings sound closer, the howling louder. His senses are assaulted again. That _one sound,_ the incessant thudding, the _beating._

 

_Can you see it?_

 

“Tell me who you are—”

 

 _You’re not brave,_ **_men are brave._ **

 

In one quick tug, the woman is in his hand, struggling. And they’re all around him again, but he holds up. He’s stronger. Far stronger than all of them combined and he knows that they _know._ It should be easy, they should be handled before things get—

 

“Clark!”

 

The phoenix swoops low in front of him then up to the sky. To his side, he sees the silhouette of a fox, howling long and loud. And a familiar beat, loud and strong.

Images from a dream and a memory from long past flashes before his eyes, strong punches contrasted by the gentle way his hands are held, words of denial contrasted by silent acceptance shining across hazel eyes.

He throws them back; it was a fleeting fight, no purpose as his gaze focuses on _him,_

 

“You. I know you.”

  
  


 

“He took him,” Arthur declares, his tone agitated, knuckles white as he grips his weapon tight. “Now, we’re one super, one bat and one motherbox short.”

“They will be fine,” Diana replies, placating.

“Oh now they’ll be fine?” Arthur turns towards her. “You’ve seen him! For all intents and purposes the Bat is useful to this cause. Who knows what will happen—”

There was a loud clanking of metals somewhere to their right, causing Arthur to turn his glare from Diana to Barry.

“Uhh- is this a bad time to bring up my sugar levels?” Shrugging, he continues, “They’ll be fine, really. I mean did you see Superman when he saw Batman? It’s like the sky lit up with fireworks or something.”

“It was like he breathed for the first time,” Victor says, speaking after being silent the whole ride back to the cave. Arthur gives them a look as if saying these are all too cheesy for him and storms off, his footsteps heavy and echoing.

The central computer lights up and just as quick, Diana is on it, fixing her gaze at the blinking red dot showing Bruce’s location.

She smiles. _Of course._

  
  
  


**I.**

“Can you tell me more about them?” Clark asks as they sit against the porch of Clark's childhood home, patiently waiting for Martha to arrive.

Bruce doesn’t turn to him, keeping his eyes trained on the horizon instead. “Barry hates brunches.”

Clark smiles, opting to stare at Bruce’s profile. The hair curling at his nape, the sweat lining his back sifting through the too-tight-on-the-shoulders flannel he borrowed from Clark. So different from what he remembers; the sight before him a juxtaposition of what he saw last.

The fox slowly trudges up to them and Clark extends his hands to the spirit, allowing it to cuddle up to his arms as it comfortably settles against his chest. To him, it’s tangible, solid, warm unlike the presence beside him that seems wisping despite the apparent solidity.

 _He’ll come around._ Or at least Clark hopes he will.

The fox contently purrs against him.

  


 

**II.**

“The team needs you, Clark. The world needs Superman.” Bruce says, his words strong between them, spoken between the last two steps that separate them.

They’re standing now, in the middle of the corn field where Bruce has walked off, his hands occasionally caressing the leaves as if feeling them for the first time and Clark wants to ask him _what about you, what do you need,_ but he merely follows, treading softly a little behind him and noticing the small height difference between them. He meant to walk ahead, if only to stop himself from staring; it isn’t that he’s having difficulty detaching the man before him from what he had known of the Bat before… well, before _everything_. It’s just that it’s too easy to coalesce them and the man from his dream that he’s having difficulty to stop.

Slipping from the calloused hand that grips his wrist, Clark shifts to hold Bruce’s hand in his and smiles when Bruce doesn’t take his hand back.

He stares at their joined hands, thinking this is how it must feel like for Pete, for Pete’s dad, for Ma and Pa. He wonders if it’s also the same for Lara and Jor-El. He wonders if it’s the same for Bruce.

He remembers reading about Bruce, the life he molded for the world to see; but the world never forgets, just as Bruce has not—if anything, everything he has done only makes him remember.

He remembers the headline; beneath it is a grainy black and white photo of a kid kneeling between two bleeding bodies. Then a funeral, a long procession of people showing they care, and maybe they do or maybe they do not, but that’s not what matters. A photo of a kid, walking down the long flight of stairs at the front of a courthouse, ushered by a man with a gentle hand on the boy’s back, worry etched on his face. He imagines a boy, growing alone in mansion too big for a grown man and a child broken by a good night turned bad. He imagines the echoes of happiness along corridors too dark and rooms too hollow. Then he sees a young man, returning with a radiant smile as if the years were enough for him to bleed out all the sorrow and pain.

Then he sees that man in front of him. He imagines he can see the guilt and the pain and the hurt. He can see the scars and the fractured bones, healing wounds and bruises, holds one skillful hand in his. He imagines he can take away all the guilt and the pain and the hurt, he imagines how all the scars and fractured bones and healing wounds and bruises were made in this beautiful body but he knows his imagination cannot encompass. Clark holds his hand in his, and no longer dreams he found his other half.

“Will you be with me along the way?”

It was not supposed to be his to ask, not in the middle of his home marked with the happiness of his childhood, the love and acceptance he grew up with. It was not supposed to be his to ask, not in a home still reeking with the smell of comfort and that distinct sense of familiarity that can be difficult to find. It wasn’t his to ask of a man with a will so strong and a wit so quick he was able to turn that shock of death, the pain of loss, the bone-deep sorrow and turn it into hope.

It was not his to ask, because Bruce isn’t supposed to be his, _cannot_ be his. They may share a bond even death cannot sever but Bruce would always be his own, and all Clark could ask is for the pleasure of his company, for as long as he would allow it.

From the final moments of his past life, the waking moments of this new life, and all that there will be after; all he will ask of Bruce is all he would ever give.

  


 

Martha’s hug feels like the bloom of life itself.

She weeps, laughing as her hands adoringly touch his face, cup his jaw, and pat his shoulders. Clark feels like he’s ten all over again, coming home sweaty with his clothes dirtied from a game on the field.

She looks at him and knows something has changed but doesn’t comment on it. She looks at him, then to Bruce, giving him the smile only reserved to Clark before.

And he hugs her again. Thankful that she understands. Thankful that she recognizes that the change within him is the one he was  seeking before. Thankful that she is his mother and that she _understands_.

Lois arrives moments later, her eyes wide, disbelieving yet all too happy.

She hugs Clark, laughing to stop the tears from falling. This, Clark recognizes as Lois prioritizing. There are more pressing matters for her right now, and it involves him.

“Diana met me earlier,” Lois begins, and Clark feels Bruce tensing, senses his body stiffening. “She took me here, actually, but she couldn’t come; says they need you.”

She shifts her gaze to Bruce, then back to him, “Both of you.”

  


 

 

It’s almost too easy.

Getting back on the battlefield is fulfilling— _disconcerting—_ relieving. He feels his strength falling back into place, the worry of not being enough and the satisfaction of being just what is needed.

Bruce’s strong heartbeat is a melody in the crashing cacophony of sounds around them. A beacon to keep the sailors in the right direction, a sweet rhythm contrasting the clash of violence they are all facing.

Then there’s the eerie whirring of the mother boxes. A roar of anger. Hissing and screeching. Everything is just flashes piling simultaneously.

 

* * *

 

“Wow, you’re the Superman.”

  


“It’s good to see you again, Kal-El.”

  


“Superman.”

  


“Superman, huh? Acting like one too. I dig it.”

  


“Master Kent.”

 

* * *

  


“ _Clark."_

 

* * *

  


“It’s not your fault, you know,” Clark says, as he carefully wraps the bandage across Bruce’s pecs. The final battle against Steppenwolf is taking its toll on the both of them.

“That’s the sixth time you’ve said that today.”

“Am I getting my point across?”

“Vaguely.”

“Then I won't get tired of doing it again. Everyday.”

“We can’t have all the nice things, Clark.” Bruce smiles at him, and Clark finds this smile hurts more than being abruptly ripped from death’s cold hands.

  
  
  
  


Weeks pass and Clark finds himself standing in the middle of his childhood bedroom. Letting his fingers trail along newly restored furniture, Clark lets himself smile, breathing in the cool air.

He listens to the commotion below: men carefully bringing furniture back into the house, his mom preparing snacks while chatting with Lois and Diana, Bruce standing idly by the truck, confusing the men as to why billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne is wasting his time watching them move stuff into a farmhouse, add to that his butler seemingly standing guard by the door.

Slowly, he leaves his room to go outside. The sun is high but the wind breathes a cool breeze, making the afternoon feel comfortable.

“Thank you is not enough for what you did,” Clark greets, staring at Bruce, his hands itching in his pockets to reach out. “You got the house back, settled me back into the planet, pretty much undid my death.”

Bruce pats his back, the touch lighting Clark up and he tries hard not to show how much he wants to lean into it, tries hard not to show his disappointment when Bruce pulls back just as quick. “I just undid a mistake, that’s all.”

Blinking, Clark forces himself to look away. “It wasn’t a mistake to me. I’d—” he breathes deep, clenching and unclenching his jaw before he speaks— “I’d do it all over again if it means I get to—”

“I just undid a mistake that ripped you apart from the world.”

Smiling, Clark lets his hands fall to his sides. “You know, you told me pretty much how my identity was re-established but you never did tell me how you got the house back from the bank.”

“I bought the bank.”

Clark raised an I’m-not-sure-if-I’m-impressed-or-what eyebrow but lets himself be stirred with a hand at the small of his back.

He didn’t say it, but that’s okay, Clark could still hear him clearly. _I just undid a mistake that ripped you apart from me._

  
  
  


 

Bruce and Alfred stayed for the night, while Diana and Lois went back to Metropolis.

It was the most lively their home had gotten in the past couple of years and Clark revels as his mom shines bright among them; fussing over Bruce, commenting on the bags under his eyes and chiding for not sleeping properly, her laughter, the easy smiles she shares with Diana and Lois and her eager chatter with Alfred as they exchange recipes. There’s an easy camaraderie between them, one that he thinks Bruce would know.

He’s aware of the guilt Bruce carried in his shoulders after his death, aware of the pain he had put him through; the same pain he can sometimes feel rolling off of him. Yet he also feels the comfort, the joy, and something that resembles contentment.

They sat side by side on the front porch, peering up at the sky. Bruce is cradling a mug of hot chocolate in his palms, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his hair a little messed up from constantly carding his fingers through it as Martha fussed over him after dinner, the cool night leaves them in that state of limbo where they both don’t know if they should speak or remain silent.

Bruce moves to place the empty mug on the space between his feet, he sets his crossed arms on his knees and looks up, “Your mom is a really good cook.”

Chuckling, Clark places his own mug down. For all he has read, he had thought Bruce would be smoother than this. “Yeah, she won the best pie contest for five consecutive years now.”

 _It’s rude to stare._ Clark hears his mom in his mind, yet he does. He stares and stares and stares, he lets his eyes caress what his hands cannot touch. The smooth slope of his nose, the thick eyelashes, the elegant cheekbones, his fingers trembling with want to card through the graying strands of hair at his temples, feel the stubble on his chin, on his jaw. “Bruce.”

Humming, Bruce closes his eyes for a second and releases a deep sigh. The fox reappears on Clark’s lap, breathing softly.

A strong hand slip beneath his and Clark turns, his breath caught at the sudden small space separating them. He stares again, not daring to touch what he wasn’t expressly allowed to.

“Can I—”

“— _Bruce_ .”  
  


* * *

  


There is something in the way Bruce breathes his name, like he’s explaining why storms are named after people, like it’s safe in his mouth and his heart.

 

There is something in the way Bruce gasps his name, like he’s running out of breath and oxygen is not enough, like he’s about to reach the end but doesn’t want to.

 

There is something in the way Bruce moans his name, his hands gripping his hair tight, scratching down his back, like he’s breathing for the first time and the name the only thing he knows.

 

There is something in the way Bruce says his name, not reverently but understandingly, cradling the syllable in his tongue, safe in his heart and guarded within his mind.

 

* * *

  


It didn’t take long before they were all needed to their own homes. Clark has settled back in Metropolis, Barry is simply too happy to finally have the opportunity to free his dad, and Victor has finally allowed the world to see him.

Diana occasionally visits, she and Clark often checking in on the renovations of the Wayne Manor. Arthur took the time off, until he came back wearing new armor and carrying a new weapon.

“The king.” Bruce greets, his gaze trained to Arthur walking out of the elevator.

Smiling, Arthur takes the offered drink and leads the toast. The trident in his hand thuds, the metal glimmering under the lights of the manor.

“How does it feel?” Diana asks, her lips quirking in that proud way of hers.

“Like I’m finally richer than the Bat.”

Laughter echoes around the cave, Clark stares at Bruce, feeling the joy emanating from him and the fox leisurely walking between their legs. For quite some time, he had wondered if he’s the only one who can see the spirit animals. That is, until Diana subtly shifts her stance to give way to the fox, sending a wink at Clark.

“Have you seen the clip?!” Barry suddenly asks, zooming to and fro the cave.

“What clip?” Arthur asks from his seat, trident resting at the back of his chair.

“You know, that one hero who charges phones?” Barry replies. “He’s wearing like, red spandex with this huge lightning bolt on his chest, kinda tall too, all smiley. There was a kid with him.”

Bruce perks up at that, a momentary pause in his typing that catch both Victor’s and Clark’s attention.

Diana turns to them. “Victor?”

“On it,” Victor replies, giving Bruce a nod. They both pause on their task of programming their new system as Victor pulls up the clip.

They all watch as the costumed hero shoots what seems to be electricity from his fingers directly to people’s phones, smiling and giggling with the kid walking beside him.

The clip is short, less than thirty seconds but it is enough to pose danger. Not to the world. But to the two of them.

With the emergence of metahumans, proving themselves to be stronger and more powerful than the average Sentinels with their enhanced endurance and Guides with their immense empathy, the planet pretty much lit up, sticking out like a sore thumb for every kind of threat to land on.

“Well, that’s new,” Arthur remarks, his tone exceptionally dry. “Who wants go meet him?”

Clark grins, turning to Bruce who merely shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

“We’ll do it.”


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me if you caught the reference?

Bruce looks across the table at Clark.

He's still favoring the country boy aesthetic years after Steppenwolf, the re-establishment of his identity, the League growing larger by the number and force. It certainly took a lot of talks and effort, leaving just enough trails and making up the right story to make his return believable. In the end, it didn't take long for Clark's colleagues at work, his boss, and those in the news industry to buy his story. After all, that's what they're trying to do most of the time: sell a story.

The road they took to get to this candle-lit table certainly wasn't easy either, and staying in this state they have reached can be even more difficult. They have differences that cannot be set aside simply because of the compatibility between them. He grounds the most powerful Sentinel in the universe and that most powerful Sentinel in the world inspires him to always be the best version of himself. It's both adoring and infuriatingly suffocating at the same time that Bruce finds himself at a loss one moment and standing at the peak of his life the next.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Clark implores, his left hand tapping dangerously close to Bruce's as if the latter wouldn't notice.

Clark has his way with words, but to Bruce there is a language far older than them, the one he knows how to speak. And he tries to say it, every day, with his beating heart. This is by far, the oldest language he knows—the language of the bodies, of a heart trying to escape the cage of the ribs, of raindrops on green leaves, of a dark cape stark against the white snow.

Clark holds the power of words to him, one sentence that could heal, one sentence to destroy. He carries the sun in him, both beautiful and destructive.

"And a dollar for your insights?" Bruce takes his hand, giving him one of Brucie's best smiles, if it's for Clark or for the people attempting sophistication while they ogle their table—either way would work.

Clark holds the strength of the gods in him, and he cradles Bruce’s heart at the safety of his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this fic please do not hesitate to leave a comment and/or kudos! I'd love to babble about these two idiots in love.
> 
> This fic is also shareable through [tumblr!](http://queen---queer.tumblr.com/post/180202047296/title-im-yours-till-the-earth-starts-to)
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading!


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